When Doomsday Calls, Gaynell Answers
by mykindofparty
Summary: The apocalypse doesn't stand a chance.


**When Doomsday Calls, Gaynell Answers**

**Summary:** The apocalypse doesn't stand a chance.

**A/N:** This doesn't fit into the Mrs. Hagberg series. Think of it more like Crack!berg. An AU within an AU. Also... Warning... Some sentiment may apply.

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><p>It's not like New York hasn't had its fair share of crisises.<p>

Or is it crises?

Ah, what the hell does she care about grammar anymore? It's the goddamned apocalypse! And no one–especially those bratty pothead landladies of hers–is dragging her ass out into Satan's playground.

They can just forget it.

"Gaynell, we have to get out of the city. We're sitting ducks here!" that dingbat Santana pleads.

Mrs. Hagberg doesn't budge. She is _not_ leaving the comforts of the place she loosely defines as her home. "Quack, quack."

Santana hates her for that, but she kind of can't yell at an elderly woman in front of her impressionable toddler so instead she does this _thing_ where she plucks strands of her fake hair out when she's stressed.

It's gross.

"You're so fu-reakin' stubborn," Santana mutters under her breath, trying not to upset her daughter, who is already on the verge of tears from all the noise and commotion outside.

Sirens wail in the distance and Mrs. Hagberg curses herself for not having the foresight to vacuum every day during Baby Chickenhead's nap. Or at least watch her shows on max volume.

Brittany also tries in vain to coax Lord Tubbington down from off the refrigerator, although Mrs. Hagberg and Santana are in agreement that he is the true mastermind behind this fuckery.

It's just easier than admitting that maybe their own damn government is behind this… zombie infestation.

See, this is why Mrs. Hagberg knew she should've stuck with her Bucket List. If she had, she'd be wasting away again in Margaritaville with Sandy the (former) waitress while listening to _Cheeseburger in Paradise _for the millionth time.

"Maybe Mrs. H has a point, babe," says Brittany. "Brynn and Lord Tubbington will slow things down. We should wait until the coast is clear before we try to venture out."

Of course Mrs. Hagberg has a point. She was a teacher for forty years! She can get her own damn points across, although getting anything through Santana's thick skull is a skill only Brittany seems to have mastered.

"Fine," Santana huffs because she knows she's outvoted. "We have about a week's worth of groceries before we're forced to look elsewhere and that's _if_ that mangy cat sticks to his diet. I need to get the gun out of the safe anyway."

She drops a clump of her fake hair on Lord Tubbington's head, before heading up the stairs while he broods from underneath it and paws at his empty food dish.

"We have a gun?" Mrs. Hagberg asks Brittany.

"_Santana and I _have a gun," Brittany replies.

Normally she'd scoff at that. Nobody with a baby needs a gun… except at a time like this. "We have a safe?"

"You don't have a safe, Mrs. H. You just have…your hoarding."

That pesky brat. "You knew I started stockpiling again?"

"Old habits die hard and you're really old so…yeah," Brittany says with a shrug. "Plus I found your coupons inside your pillowcase while I was doing the laundry. Where do you keep your stash? 'Cause it's not in the basement. I already checked."

This is the Hootsy Bootsy she's always regretfully liked. The sly girl with the shrewd remarks.

No, not girl. Woman.

God, none of her former students are kids anymore.

Some of them are probably even feasting on each other's flesh by now.

Damn her feeble mind for getting sentimental.

"I became a hoarder because I thought I'd need all this crap some day! And guess what? I did. I had a whole lifetime of crap. But now I suspect that lifetime is almost over. Thanks to you chickenheads insisting I come live with you and be your live in nanny and whatnot. So yeah, it's all in the trunk."

"What's in what trunk?" Santana asks, back from her damn excursion.

It's a miracle she didn't bail given her track record, but instead of pissing off perhaps the only other remaining survivors in Brooklyn, Mrs. Hagberg grunts. "Just the keys to our salvation."

"We're talking about Mrs. H.'s doomsday crap–crud," Brittany amends, covering Brynn's ears.

"Oh. Well, that explains why I didn't find anything useful in her room," Santana adds.

That little snoop would know. Mrs. Hagberg catches her rifling through her shit at least once a week. Looking for more Amsterdam potpourri, no doubt. Or her pension checks.

So next they need a plan.

And not a complete chickenheaded one, either.

Luckily Mrs. Hagberg used the Taurus last, and like any responsible former driver's ed teacher, she filled up the gas tank. If it had been either Santana or Brittany, they'd get as far as the end of the driveway. They siphon it out anyways in the dead of night just in case someone tries to steal it. Mrs. Hagberg also puts her own boot on it –a precaution she always takes driving around this wretched city since she never knows when her meter will run out.

Then they take turns boarding up the ground floor windows while the third person clutches an old wooden baseball bat found in the hall closet in case Sam Evans ever showed up, according to Santana. Or someone named Elaine or Dani or any "rando Virginia Woolf groupies", according to Brittany.

The rest of the evening is quiet except for the moaning.

It's not coming from the zombies outside, either. It's Santana.

"I'm so bored. What happened to the Wi-Fi?"

Mrs. Hagberg snorts. These chickenheads and their technology. It's no wonder they didn't see any apocalypse warning signs. Of course, she didn't either, but she's _earned_ her laziness. These brats just feel entitled to it.

_That's_ what's wrong with the youth of today: no awareness.

Back in her day, she was at the heart and soul of it all! Civil Rights Marches? Front lines. Women's Lib Rally? Front and center. Protesting 'Nam? Chained herself to a flagpole.

Now it's all about checking Facebook statuses and randomly bursting out into sappy love songs.

Day Two there's so much chaos in the streets that makes them all question just how long it will take before someone tries to break in. Even the steely Lord Tubbington is spooked.

"We could always play a game," Brittany suggests, hoping to calm everybody's nerves. She seems the most sane considering the circumstances. Then again, holding it together has always been one of her strong suits.

"But how will we without the internet?" says Mrs. Hagberg. She's too on edge to play anything. She's the one holding the gun for now.

Maybe she should hand it over to Brittany.

If it comes down to it, she's the only one who could actually pull the trigger.

Day Three comes and goes, but not without tons of gunfire and explosions in the distance.

They all pray it doesn't get any closer.

It's eerily quiet on Day Four. The wind howls and the city that never sleeps may finally be at rest.

Brittany does her best to keep them all from teetering into madness, but there's only so much _Go Fish_ they can play and Brynn gets more upset every day.

Santana, being the least rational person left alive on the planet, makes a ridiculous suggestion. "Maybe there's a bus getting people out of the city."

"There's no bus," Mrs. Hagberg replies.

"We could at least try to find out!"

"There's no bus."

By Day Five they're all a little stir crazy, although the commotion outside is back. Gasps, growls, gunshots. It's all waiting for them outside; eventually they will have to leave their sanctuary, but by now the games are hardly a distraction.

"Dingbat, it's your turn."

"Dare. And I can't believe I just responded to that nickname."

"I dare you to go outside and get bitten."

Somehow it's too funny not to laugh until everyone cries and they don't know how to stop.

Day Six is all prep work. They prep the car. They prep the car seat. They load up what canned goods they have left. Santana writes #1's ONLY on an old coffee can, to everyone's disgust.

This is what their lives are now.

Creamed corn and pee cans.

It's Day Seven – go time – and the damn cheerleaders have somehow managed to throw her for a loop.

It happens when they all climb in the Taurus and Mrs. Hagberg takes the wheel, being the most experienced. "Okay, I'll drive if you two read the map."

"You never taught us that," Santana says quietly.

"Do I have to reteach you to wipe your own asses, too? Because I'm fairly certain I did teach you that in geography class. Or were you too busy staring down each other's shirts to notice?"

"That's what the GPS was for. One less thing for us to worry about," Brittany says.

Mrs. Hagberg sighs. "After all this time I _still_ have to teach you chickenheads something?"

"Til the day you die," they chime in together.

Damn. If that's the case then maybe there's time for one last prayer because they are _so_ doomed:

May death be swift and merciful and may Hell feel like a vacation.


End file.
